


butter (as good as fucking her)

by neuroglam



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Cunt, Georgi got back, Gosha sempai please lead this impressionable youth teach him good, M/M, Michele is Georgi's Aesthetic, Michele is not quite alright in the head but I guess we all knew that, Michele likes big butts and he cannot lie, Michele still wants to fuck his sister, They're both bi, m-dash galore, may these two have a lot of hot sex in the future, though his heart is in the right place
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-23
Updated: 2018-07-23
Packaged: 2019-05-30 21:34:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,669
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15105299
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/neuroglam/pseuds/neuroglam
Summary: “Your skate. It was about a girl, wasn’t it,” Georgi says as he leans next to him at the bar.





	butter (as good as fucking her)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [prillalar](https://archiveofourown.org/users/prillalar/gifts).



> Dear recip, please enjoy this treat. I hope I didn't hit too close to the threesome dnw.
> 
> Many thanks to Ren and Sweets for feedback on earlier drafts :)

Georgi leans next to him at the bar. “Your skate. It was about a girl, wasn’t it,” he says softly.

Michele swigs back what’s left of his whiskey. “So what if it was!” He slams the empty glass on the bar plot like his dad used to. Shame piles upon shame inside him, and he turns away. He wants to be left alone. It’s why he’s not partying out with the others.

Georgi looks straight ahead, smiles faintly. “I thought it was beautiful.”

Michele’s feelings have been called a lot of things—Sarah’s called them a lot of things. Beautiful isn’t one of them.

He huffs and turns around. “Thanks, I guess.” 

I was also skating for a girl.” Georgi’s face looks so much softer out of the make-up. Pensive. “It’s hard, isn’t it, when they don’t love us.”

Michele doesn’t know what to say. In the end, he pushes his whiskey bottle across the counter.

Georgi smiles at him, so it must have worked. The barman, a bald guy in his forties in a white shirt and a bowtie, quickly slides an empty glass next to the bottle. Georgi fills it himself and raises it. “Thank you, Mickey.”

Michele looks down on his hands at the counter. “You’re welcome.” He practically feels Georgi's eyes on the side of his face.

“Hmmm.” That same tenderness. Then Georgi sips. Michele watches him close his eyes as he rolls the whiskey on his tongue. “Nice,” Georgi says. “Smokey.”

Michele can’t stop looking at him. His face is very...

“Cheers.” Michele lifts his own glass before it gets weird. “To those who choose assholes even though we love them more.”

“Cheers.”

Georgi doesn’t ask questions. Michele likes that. Makes it easier to say things and not worry that Georgi will pry. “I just… she’s beautiful,” he says. Georgi nods with that soft look of his. “And I… know she doesn’t like me that way, but I still can’t help—” Michelle touches the middle of his own chest and only realizes he’s done it when he sees Georgi do it, too.

“Yes,” Georgi says, still nodding. “And your feelings, your yearning, your love—they're beautiful, too. I could only hope to show so much in my skating.”

Michele looks away. It only makes it worse, the thing in the middle of his chest. And the shame next to it, too. He knows who Georgi’s pining for—by this point, the penguins in Antarctica have heard him wail about Anya. But Anya is a girlfriend. Sarah is a sister. You’re not supposed to feel this way about a sister.

“I want to hold her,” Michele says because it’s been that much whiskey, and it’s that kind of a night.

“Yes.” Georgi is still so damn tender, so damn soft. Like he empathizes. Like what they feel is the same.

“I wish I could fuck her,” Michele spits. "I want to hook my arms under her knees. Lift her off-season thighs.” He lifts his arms to show how, his voice rises with how he wants to shock Georgi, to push him away. “They get so fat; if I squeeze them, my fingers would sink in like butter; my dick would sink in like butter, she never shaves and I’ve stolen her panties, I know how her cunt smells.” It doesn’t work, but he can’t stop. “I want to hold under her knees and slam into her, I want her tits to shake, I want to slap the fat on her thighs, to flip her around and grab her fat ass—” Michele’s hands are in the air, waving, and cursed Georgi’s smiling still.

“I like my girls with a bit of meat on them, too.” The blasted softness is still there but it’s turned different: there’s a glint in his eyes that wasn’t there before; they seem darker. “Why don’t you come up to my room?” Georgi sips and looks at Michele kind of weird, playfully, up through his lashes. “You can tell me about everything you want to do to her. Not just the things that are fit for public consumption.”

Fuck. They are in public, aren’t they, and here Mickey’s been shouting. Damn his Italian temper. There’s already rumors, the last thing he needs—

“I’ll get the next bottle,” Georgi says and shakes this one at the barman. Somehow, it’s gotten empty. Mickey looks numbly as a credit card appears, as another bottle’s put in a bucket. “We can carry our own glasses, right?” Georgi . “Let’s go.”

Michelle goes. He follows Georgi, looks down the line of his back and the curve of his ass. In the off-season, it probably also gets fat. The elevator doors slide open and shut, Georgi mashes a button—but Michele’s drunken brain is still stuck on that.

“You’d look good fat,” he blurts as they start moving up.

“Thanks,” Georgi says, still soft, still smiling, but... sadder?

Michele feels bad. He didn’t mean to make him sad.

“It’s appreciated,” Georgi goes on. “It’s a bit of a hard subject for me. Fat.”

Michele waves his hands. “But you said you liked—”

Georgi starts. Then stops. Then goes with, “I do. So, thanks.”

Michele doesn’t understand any of this. Maybe it's the whiskey. But the doors of the elevator open, and Georgi seems happy.

They turn down one long corridor, then down another. _It’s Okay_ , Michele tells himself. _He knows where we’re going._

They stop at a door. Georgi’s door, even though from the outside, it looks like all of the others.

The card reader whirrs, the lock clicks. Georgi walks in so Mickey goes after.

“Make yourself at home.” Georgi sits on the bed and leans back with his legs crossed at the ankles. His body makes a long, lean line. Michele looks at it for a moment before he sits next to him.

“So,” Georgi says as he pours himself a glass. He doesn’t pour for Mickey, probably for the best. “You were telling me about your girl.”

Michele tries, but he can’t. It’s harder up here. Mickey squints. Maybe the light is too bright.

Georgi reaches over and turns it down. With only the reading lamp on,  Mickey’s eyes don’t hurt as much, and it’s like Georgi’s skin has only gotten softer. When Georgi drinks—a proper swallow now, almost a third of the glass—shadows play on his throat.

Neither of them say anything. Georgi's glass makes as clank as he puts it on the nightstand. “Tell me about how her ass gets when it’s fat.” Georgi leans back.

A flush goes right through Mickey. It feels like it’s too hot. Does Georgi know what he’s asking? “It gets dimply,” he finally says. It feels like a big thing, to admit that he’s been watching her. “When she walks, the globes… shake.” He likes it most when she’s wearing a thin, flowy pair of trousers; when her whole ass jiggles and the fabric hides nothing. “It’s always makes me feel—” Like this, it makes him feel like this, wanting and hard in his trousers.

Georgi rolls over so he’s facing Mickey. His eyes are back to being dark. They roam all over Mickey’s body, rest heavy on his dick. “Tell me about her hair,” Georgi says. “About her lips. What you want to do to her. How much you love her.”

Her hair is long and heavy, and her lips are always lined up, covered in lipstick. Mickey wants to kiss them, yes, and he’d like them on his dick, but even more so, he burns with hate for all the guys she smiles at, and who picture them on theirs. “I want...” he says. “I want her hair to be all over the pillow. I want her head to be back and her mouth to be open when I fuck her. I want her to be so full of dick she’d never look at those assholes again; they don’t respect her, they don’t—”

Georgi nods, like he thinks this is good, like he thinks he understands.

“Do you have her panties here?”

“Why do you want to know, you fucking—”

"It’s Okay… I’m not after her." Georgi glances at Michele's bulge, palm pressing on his own through his trousers. “You can take it out.” Georgi’s voice rasps and he swallows. “Tell me about your girl, and I'll tell you about mine.”

“I don’t want to hear about any other girl! I love Sarah! She—” Then he stops himself because he realizes what he just said, what came out his mouth.

“I know you love her,” Georgi says like nothing happened, that fucking tenderness back in his voice. “I could tell from your skating.”

Mickey breathes through the panic in his chest. His heart beats fast, but his dick is hard, so hard against his trousers.

“That can’t be comfortable.” Georgi licks his lips. His palm still rubs through his trousers, up-down, up-down. “Come on. Take it out. Show me.”

“I’m not—”

“I think it’s beautiful,” Georgi says.

How can he say that? “It’s not— You don’t know what I think about!”

“Then tell me. Show me.”

“You—”

“I won’t tell anyone,” Georgi says, ever-so-soft, as he reaches for his own flies and starts unbuttoning. He’s thinking of Sarah! Michele sees red.

“It’s okay,” Georgi pants out as he gives himself a long stroke. “I’m not hard for your girl.” And another. “I’m hard for how you want her.”

It's the first hard dick Michele's seen in his life, and he can't look away from how the head pops in and out of Georgi’s fist.

“You wanna see it better?” Georgi says and lets it go, puts his hand under his own balls and bounces it a little.

Michele watches it bob and he thinks—this dick can fuck. It can sink into a girl’s cunt, make her raise her legs and hold them spread, ask for for harder, for more. Georgi rubs it and the tip leaks, a clear streak of fluid that follows his hand, and Michele—he reaches for that hand, pulls it on top of his own face because he wants to smell.

“Show me yours,” Georgi says. “I'll keep my hand here.”

Michele lets go of the hand and fumbles with his own pants. It's easier than he'd have ever thought it to be, had he dared to think of doing this sober. Squeezing his eyes shut helps. Leaning into the hand on his face helps, too. He takes in a deep breath—the hand that was touching Georgi's dick—then lets it out, lets go. It feels good, having his dick out, touching himself while he’s being watched.

“You have a nice dick,” Georgi says, still rubbing himself. “I bet she’d love that in her cunt. From behind. Between the globes of her ass that shake—”

“I want her to.” A confession. “I want to pump her full of come, I want her to never look at fucking Nekola again!”

“I know,” Georgi says. “I wish mine would never look at fucking Oleg either.” He moves closer and their dicks touch; Georgi wraps his hand around them both, around Mickey’s. Mickey’s never—

“I want to see you fuck her,” Georgi says as he pumps. “Do you want to eat her out? If you like to smell her panties, picture that—”

Mickey does. He’s never dared to, but he _does_.

“Have you ever eaten out a girl?” Georgi says. “One that doesn’t shave? Stuff leaks all out her cunt, wets the hair, gets all over your face—”

Can Georgi tell Michele's never— “Please,” he says and ruts harder in their joined fists.

“Then when you fuck her, when you fuck— _fuck_ —bury yourself to the fucking balls and slap against her fat ass”—Georgi’s breath hitches and Mickey’s hitches with it—“even then, you’d be able to smell her.”

Mickey pictures it. He pictures it too well.

“You’d reach down and you’d rub her clit so she opens up her slutty painted mouth and moans for you—” Georgi pulls on their dicks, fast; Michelle pushes into it—

“You know what else girls do? They rut against you. Tilt their cunts up ‘cause they want to be full of your come”—and Mickey can’t; he pictures her, wanting; wanting him him him, being a slut only for him, wanting him to make her full—and collapses Georgi as he comes.

“Good,” Georgi says and pets his damp hair. “So good.”

Michele leans forward; he _needs_ , so they’re kissing, and it’s rough, it smells like sex, like dick. Georgi grunts into his mouth.

Fascinated, Mickey looks at Georgi’s dick spurt on his stomach. So this is what it’s like to have another guy’s come all over you.

Then Georgi flops backwards, breathes heavily as his heartbeat subsides. Mickey watches him and thinks of his ass in the off season. Will Georgi let him? Or could they get a girl together, a big, greedy, fat one with heavy, swinging tits (as one of them pounds into her, as the lipstick from her mouth—Sarah’s lipstick, he’ll steal Sarah’s—is all over the other’s one’s dick).

Will she fit them both?

Could they pump her full of come the way they did today, together?

Their dicks touching. The smell.

Georgi’s eyes crack open, tired. “What are you thinking about?” he says.

“Fucking a girl together,” Mickey says. “Seeing our come leak down her thighs.”

“Fat?” Georgi says.

Mickey nods. “With a lot of makeup.”

Georgi keeps looking at him, still soft, but different.

Mickey can’t read his face. “Blond,” he adds, because he feels guilty, like he needs to make a concession.

“We’ve got lots of those in Moscow.” Georgi keeps studying his face. There's silence.

“Maybe you should come and visit,” Georgi says in the end.

“In the summer.” Mickey says. So she can have the jiggly kind of trousers on.

Mickey sneaks out, half-drunk, while Georgi still sleeps. The awareness of what he has done seeps into his guts and makes them twist. It gets a little better when the elevator doors close on him, and better still once he's safely in his room.

Maybe that would be that, a safe one-night-stand they'd never mention further.

He's pissing, sitting down because his head hurts, when his cell phone pings. _I'm still up for this if you are,_ Georgi says. _Think it over._

Mickey takes a nervous breath and lets it out. He texts back, _Thank you. I had a great time last night._

 _Moscow's parks are beautiful in the summer._ They probably are. Michele’s never been. He pours himself a glass of water from the sink and gulps it down. His guts are still churning.

 _Next time, let’s talk about your girl,_ he sends and feels better.

A smiley face bubbles up. Then: _We could do a Skype trial session. See how it works when we're both sober._

Michele looks at his phone for the longest time. _Yes. Yes, we should._

He taps send, terrified.

The flight home is nine hours, but there's only so many movies he can watch in a row. Mickey turns the screen off and bounces his leg. Next to him, Sarah stares into a Dan Brown thriller like Mickey isn't even there. Her hair is thick and black, hanging over one shoulder. Her lips are red (the lipstick). Her thighs are firm and season-ready, but they look so large, spread on the seat. (She's wearing the white jeans. Her thighs always spread when she's wearing the white jeans.)

"Stop staring at me!" she snaps. "Weirdo."

Michele looks away. He isn't stupid, he knows she’d never sleep with him—even though he feels like a different guy now that he's admitted, to himself and to Georgi, the full extent of what he wants.

Conscious and deliberate, he closes his eyes and imagines: what if she'd agree to sleep with Georgi? If Michele could taste her cunt on Georgi's dick.

Maybe, it would be as good as fucking her.


End file.
